


I Make The Same Mistakes

by XvoodooXXblueX



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, M/M, Unrequited Love, i should be sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 05:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XvoodooXXblueX/pseuds/XvoodooXXblueX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The words are nothing more than an echo, now, ricocheting from one corner of his brain to another, comprehension long ago washed away by the night's drink. It didn't matter, though. Grantaire had heard it all before, all the reprimands the disgust, the predictions of a less than favourable fate if he continued in this way and the confirmation of a uselessness he could no longer remember not feeling from his marrow outward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Make The Same Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sermocinare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sermocinare/gifts).



**I Make The Same Mistakes**

The words are nothing more than an echo, now, ricocheting from one corner of his brain to another, comprehension long ago washed away by the night's drink. It didn't matter, though. Grantaire had heard it all before, all the reprimands the disgust, the predictions of a less than favourable fate if he continued in this way and the confirmation of a uselessness he could no longer remember not feeling from his marrow outward.

He should be angry, he thought, livid, even that these words, sharp like daggers, would not stop needling him and still would not let him die. He should get up and cast a shadow in the way of the brightness that was Enjolras treating this cause, Grantaire, the dislike thereof, with the same passion with which he treated the Revolution and its social issues. But Grantaire could do no such thing. Nothing and no one would ever be able to cast that shadow and should never be able to, least of all he.

A resounding silence descended on the room and it was unusual. It made Grantaire wonder if this rant had been any different or particularly harsh in a way that his addled brain had missed but all he could do was stare up at Enjolras with burning eyes that dared not hope seeing anything other than disdain and pity. His predictions weren't proven wrong. Enjolras looked unrelenting, unmovable and he was beautiful; breathtaking. It was sickening, Grantaire thought. How small and insignificant, what a failure he must look to someone such as Enjolras.

Then, without another word, Enjolras turned away to occupy himself with the cause of the Revolution and with the people he could converse with, leaving Grantaire to the rising tidal wave of fury that was bubbling inside him, making his stomach burn uncomfortably. He sprang from his chair in a movement that was a lot less deliberate than he had hoped and even if his way to the door consisted of far more fumbling and stumbling, it was intended to make known his anger. Maybe it did. It might have, for Joly called after him, the frown that was surely on his face, bleeding into his voice. Grantaire didn't care. At least the door slamming behind him had the impact he had hoped for.

Grantaire wasn't sure if his mind was playing tricks on him or if he had made his way home in rather shorter a time than usual, fueled by an anger that seemed to overpower his inebriation and made a valiant effort to fraternise with his hurt and hopelessness. This was unacceptable and had to be remedied immediately. Grantaire was not able to fumble his door unlocked without frustration getting the better of him, causing him to slam his fist into the wall beside the door. He cursed as the pain formed a burn in his knuckles and shocked his wrist but he welcomed the pain almost as much as he welcomed the darkness and quiet that waited for him beyond his front door.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Grantaire leant against it with a world-weary sigh, his anger abated enough to leave him exhausted and shaking. He shrugged off his coat, letting it fall where he stood and the only stop he made on the way to his bed was the cabinet from which he retrieved the bottle. Absinthe, this time, the thirst for wine had passed and the need for oblivion had grown overwhelming.

The crude drawing of the temptress, the green fairy, stared back mockingly at Grantaire as he drank and it wasn't much of a stretch of the imagination to see, in it, a head of golden curls and blue eyes on fire with passion and determination. Grantaire groaned, feeling wretched, wanting to throw the bottle from him. Instead he set it to his lips and tilted back his head, letting the drink burn down his throat in a long stream that cemented his wretchedness and turned it from the inside out.

He gagged on the bitter taste several times, but he kept going. Everything Enjolras had said was true. Everything he had said that night and on any other he had deigned Grantaire with whatever attention he could spare. He was incapable; incapable of anything that Enjolras valued. Incapable of life and passion and belief and the drink would eradicate anything that was left beyond that. But Enjolras didn't know. He didn't know that he was the one person, the one entity in the world that Grantaire had placed all his inconsiderable amount of faith in. But it was of no consequence. He would not care even if he knew. He would not want to be tainted by it and for the night, Grantaire would not taint him. For that night, the last shreds of Grantaire's belief would be eradicated in his inebriation.

The bottle empty, it slid from Grantaire's limp grasp. Tonight he hated Enjolras. In the morning he would hate himself, maybe a little more than he did the day before, and his love for Enjolras would be unbroken. He would become a shadow once more, too insignificant to eclipse the sun but ugly enough to be a noticeable annoyance.

Grantaire barely managed to lean over the side of the bed before he heaved and retched and his body expelled what excess alcohol it could. He came back from it shaking and a sob tore from his throat as he curled in on himself and soon slipped into the welcome darkness of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I promised my bb unrequited R/E angst with a side order of stupid amounts of booze and I think I might have delivered. Sorry, not sorry (maybe slightly...).


End file.
